


Hedgehogs; Redux

by Kashia



Series: Hedgehogs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Not as sad as you may think it is, Post-Reichenbach, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kashia/pseuds/Kashia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's devastation at Sherlock's "Fall" is eased, just a bit, by an unexpected source</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hedgehogs; Redux

3 years.

3 long, empty years had passed; and it hadn’t helped in the slightest that it had been that amount of time. If anything, it made it worse. 3 years since he had last heard that voice. 3 years since he had seen that face. 3 years since his love, his detective, /Sherlock/, had—  
“No. No, stop it, stop this.”  
John shook his head and looked at the gravestone in front of him again, tears behind his eyes, before touching it and whispering to it, as he had often done in the past.  
“Please, god, let him be alive.”  
A simple, broken prayer, a fool’s prayer, but if that’s what it took to believe, then John Watson would be that fool.

His limp was back, to be expected. He was incomplete, unable to function properly, like a machine without an important cog, without Sherlock in his life. He had eaten properly and taken care of his health only because he could hear the voice in his head, berating him that there was one person he cared about malnourished enough, he wouldn’t have wanted the same for John.  
He still lived in 221B. He couldn’t bear to be anywhere else; as though Sherlock would waltz through the door and demand any second that John hadn’t heard his request to pass him a pen, or that there was a new case out, or that he just needed John to sit on the couch so Sherlock could rest his head. He sat down in a chair with a choked sob and held his hands in his hair; jumping slightly at his phone alerting him to a text.  
He checked the number and frowned; not one he knew. Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, they had all stopped texting after a while; he hadn’t responded, anyway. A lost cause, maybe. He opened the message blankly, then blinked, stared.  
It was a picture of a hedgehog.  
A stuffed hedgehog, a bit worse for wear, bags under its eyes (Just like him, John thought drily), in an undisclosed background. He had no idea where it was or who had sent him the picture, but his hands shook and he had to fight back tears.  
Sherlock was the only one who knew about that.  
Sherlock.  
John held his breath, hoping to god this wasn’t some sick joke, that someone had found out and was pretending; and then he noticed the message.  
“/I’m so very sorry./”  
That was all it said, and yet, John felt a small, tiny bit of warmth start to fill the coldness of the past 3 years.  
Over the next few weeks, there wasn’t another message. John would look at the picture and message every day, trying to figure out the meaning, or at least who it was. At work he concentrated a tiny bit more, hoping to finish and go home to puzzle over the mystery. He ate, drank, and slept on his automatic schedule with a tiny bit more vigor. Everything seemed just a tiny bit /more/.  
Then the next one came.

The hedgehog was in the snow; John could see a bit of a wooden sign in the background, nothing else. He could tell that the hedgehog looked a little better too; a little more cleaned up. It brought a small, wry smile to his lips. This was silly; a hedgehog, looking like John was feeling? And then the message.  
“/Please forgive me./”  
John’s smile fell, and once more he fought back tears.

Over the next few months, time seemed to speed up; not quite as much as it used to, but more than the agonizing crawl John had felt. He continued getting pictures of the hedgehog (looking better, slowly, as well, John noted), in various locations; sometimes in sand, in the mountains, once in a pool on a float (he had managed a short giggle there and admonished the hedgehog for not inviting him). It was always somewhere new, always accompanied by short messages.

“/Please believe I’m sorry./”  
“/Are you okay?./”  
“/I miss you./”  
“/I believe in you, John Watson./”

The last two had thrown him slightly, not that the whole thing wasn’t a bit strange. He never asked anyone’s opinion, though; he was certain he knew what reaction he’d get. He never replied either, an irrational fear that replying would make it go away keeping his hands still.

Two weeks after the last hedgehog, another message was sent. This time the hedgehog was a little different. All that followed in the message was a question mark.  
John blinked at it, struggling to figure out what was meant; and what the little blue thing wrapped around the hedgehog’s neck was. It was too thick to be a rubber band, and he doubted it’d be anything tight. It was too thick as well, to be a ribbon, or satin, or anything like it. He looked as much into the background and saw it was likely somewhere cold, urban, grey.  
Then he yelped as it hit him. A scarf. The hedgehog was wearing a scarf. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it, the little hedgehog, wearing a scarf—wearing a scarf to match Sherlock’s…  
His breath caught lightly and he blinked a few times, before finally typing a reply.  
“It suits him.”  
The next message came later that night; the hedgehog posing with the scarf. It made him laugh, a real laugh, the first one in years.

Another few weeks passed in between that message and the next, showing the hedgehog, still with the scarf, mind you, in front of some silver thing. It was giant, and it looked like a kidney bean, and John had absolutely no clue what the hell it was.  
“/Cloud Gate./”  
Oh. Helpful. Looking it up put the little hedgehog in Chicago. John felt the strange urge to look at where else the little rascal had been. Whoever had been sending him this tracking method was obviously sending a message. They wanted him to know something. He wasn’t sure what, but he resolved to search every single place that stupid, stuffed hedgehog had made its way to.  
It took many phone calls, trips to various places around London, and many sleepless nights, but John created a map of the exploits of his little correspondent. He had been on just about every continent, it seemed. Many major countries; Norway, China, Russia, Cambodia, India, USA, Iceland, and so many more. That little hedgehog got around.

He finished marking the last dot on the map and his phone pinged again. He nearly dived at it to decipher the next clue; the hedgehog’s travels becoming a way to pass time, to keep himself sane, something marginally exciting.  
“/Good job./”  
He smiled.

After this, a few months passed; no sign of the hedgehog or correspondent anywhere. John was starting to feel a bit of panic, though he wouldn’t admit it. This little charade had almost kept him believing Sherlock could be alive, it was just cruel to take it from him. He checked the calendar for his plans and nearly choked up at the date; January 29.

Their anniversary. The day he had met Sherlock. The day he sometimes wished never had happened, the day the brilliant, mad, genius, wonderful being Sherlock Holmes had come into his life. He hadn’t thought about it, had tried so hard to forget this day for three years, and had nearly succeeded. But the date burned and he moved away like he was scalded.

The day passed in a blur; work, lunch break, hello Lestrade (badger), back to work, Tesco’s, flat. Put away food, sit down. Relax. Contemplate drink. Incoming text. Still contemplate dri—wait.  
He dived for the phone and lit up, slightly, when he saw it was that number again; he had saved it to his contacts as “Travel log” (Bit appropriate if you asked him) and he sighed.  
“Good. Maybe I can be distracted. Where are you now, you little rascal. Shouldn’t leave me alone so long, god—“  
The phone slipped from his grasp as the picture opened; his breaths sped up and his eyes were wide in disbelief.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be true.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Oh god.

The hedgehog was at 221B Baker Street.

John swallowed and picked the phone back up, hands shaking, to look at the message underneath, baited breath.  
“/I’m home./”  
Tears sprang unbidden to his face as he dropped the phone once more, throwing the door open and running down the stairs to nearly wrench the front door off its hinges.

There stood Sherlock Holmes, a bit worse for the wear (body thinner, hasn’t eaten consistently of course, hardly slept, his eyes have circles under them like its no one’s business, his hair’s longer, unkempt, he hasn’t shaven) but his clothes were the same and in his hands was a small, stuffed hedgehog with a matching scarf.

“I’m home, John.”  
John’s eyes welled up and he smiled, a real, genuine smile that lit up his watering eyes as he threw himself into his detective’s nervous arms.  
“Welcome home.”


End file.
